


Balancing Acts

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Courtship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: Unable to go back, Javert finds his way forward.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Thank you so much to my lovely beta. 
> 
> While Javert doesn't use his gun to kill himself in the Dallas setting, I had him do so here (or attempt it, rather) purely for artistic reasons. Happy Yuletide!

Life, inexplicably, went on.

He got up in the mornings, showered, shaved. Put on his coat and went to work. There had been a lot to do in the aftermath of the riots, reports to write, interviews to conduct. The routine was familiar and discomforting at once; he felt too much like an impostor in his own life.

Most of all he tried not to think too much about Jean Valjean.

That night still seemed unreal to him, though he could not deny its impact. He remembered standing with the gun in his hand; he even remembered putting it to his mouth. And then, the despair when the weapon had refused to fire.

At some point he'd gone to the office and started typing out a long e-mail to the superintendent. In the middle of the process he'd fallen asleep, waking up at 5 AM with his head on the desk, every muscle of his body aching. Looking at the jumbled draft on the screen, he'd winced – at the rambling earnestness, at the thought of having anyone read it, at his awareness that he could no longer pretend he did not mean every word.

In the end he had saved the draft as a reminder to himself, before sending another e-mail to call in sick for the first time in his life. Then he'd gone home, taken a shower, and fallen promptly asleep.

When he'd next woken up, all of his body aching, it had been to massive headlines in the newspaper and a terrible feeling that the world would never again be the same. And yet, all of the mundane things remained. The small kitchen, the coffee machine, the bowl of breakfast cereal he ate standing up. The taste of normalcy was comforting, although he was not certain he had earned it.

He'd checked his email drafts. The proof of his unravelling – his epiphany, his revelation, or whatever he was supposed to call it – was still there. He had not sent it by mistake; he could still pretend nothing had happened. The thought was tempting, like standing on the edge of the cliff. One little move, and everything would be over, for better or worse.

Again he thought of the gun, his failure to end it all the night before. He could get another gun down at the station. Barring that, there were plenty of options. High-rise buildings. Paracetamol and vodka. His own leather belt.

In the light of day, all of the options seemed bleak, as bleak as the shame that bore down on him whenever he thought of Jean Valjean's haunting eyes. Valjean had not been afraid. Valjean had stood up to him, putting himself between Javert and that boy. He had reached out to Javert, touched him...

Javert put his phone away. "Coward," he said to himself. "You goddamned coward."

Then he'd gone back to bed. At least in sleep no decisions had to be made, and having to endure the chaos of his dreams was a small price to pay.

 

*

 

Eventually, he had made it back to work and to a semblance of his life. There were rules to follow, as always; not all of them proved troubling. Surely some rules were needed. But which ones? Who decided when it was right to bend or even break the rules? And what did you do when the rules were wrong?

"Law and order," he would argue aloud in his car, driving home at night. "You can't just do what you want. You have to follow the rules."

Streetlights flickered, throwing shadows across the empty seat next to him. He imagined Jean Valjean there, brought to justice at last, sentenced to provide Javert with answers and a way of assuaging his doubt. "You broke the rules at the riots. You let me go. You weren't supposed to do that."

 _Ah_ , said the Valjean in his mind, _but when have I ever done what I was supposed to do?_ – and he smiled.

Valjean had no reason to be kind, or to smile at him like that. Javert had never asked for his kindness. Still, the thought of Valjean's smile, the dark eyes crinkling at the corners, haunted him almost as much as the unanswered questions.

What if they were to meet again?

Javert could find him. Valjean had given him his address and even the name he went by these days. Of course, he might have been lying, but that seemed too unlikely – too much like something a criminal was supposed to do, Javert thought with a bitter twist of his mouth.

He would not go looking for Valjean, he told himself. But he could not manage to put the thought to rest.

The summer went on, a balancing act between old and new, sanity and despair. Even the arguments he carried on with Valjean in his own mind took on the familiarity of routine, going in circles and circles, leaving him with no answers, only unresolved questions.

And yet, despite the dishonesty, the confusion, the frustration, he was still alive. It was not much of a life, but it was a life Jean Valjean had seen fit to save. And as the weeks went past, Javert began to realise that he would never know why – unless he tracked the man down, the real man, and put the questions to him once and for all.

And so, one August night, he found himself standing outside a modest-looking apartment building in an unfashionable part of town, staring at the doorbell.

He hadn't written down the address that night. Somehow it had etched itself into his mind. Same thing with the name Fauchelevent, though seeing it written out like that still sent a jolt through him.

The thought that Jean Valjean was within reach was almost too much to bear, but he made himself raise his hand and press the doorbell.

A few moments passed; he almost hoped nobody would be at home. Then the intercom crackled and a female voice asked, "Hello?"

"Uh, hello." Was it the wrong name after all? "I'm looking for V- Fauchelevent. Is he home?"

"I'll go get him," the voice said. "Who's calling?"

"An old friend." The words were out before he knew it, and he winced. But a few moments later, a deeper voice, unmistakeably Valjean's, sounded from the intercom. "Who's there?"

"It's me. Javert."

He was suddenly reminded of his childhood, of those times when his mother had made him go over to the neighbours and ask if their son could come out to play. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you," he added, not knowing what else to say.

"Javert." Valjean's voice sounded faint for a moment, as if with shock. Then, more resolutely, "Hold on a moment, I'll come down."

"All right." He still felt ridiculous. Only now did it occur to him that Valjean might think he was there to arrest him. The thought was annoying, given all the weeks of turmoil. Even now, a part of him wondered if it would be the right thing to do – but no, that ship had sailed. Surely Valjean would realise that.

After another minute or so, the door opened and Valjean appeared. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a suit jacket over it; he looked quite different from when Javert had seen him last, covered in sewage, but the look on his face – quiet and resigned – was similar.

"No car in sight," he said with a glance over Javert's shoulder. "You're not here to arrest me?"

"I parked it down the street," Javert said. "But you're right. This is not what an arrest looks like. I wouldn't have come alone, either." Then, to be on the safe side, he added, "You can probably tell I'm not going to arrest you, or I'd have done it already."

"I was wondering, yes," Valjean said. "I wasn't lying when I said I'd go along." He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. "Why are you here, then?"

Only now did Javert properly become aware of the height difference between them. Valjean had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye, and he did so without fear, just as he had touched Javert without fear. This man had spent two decades in prison, and yet he behaved as if Javert was of no danger to him. It was uncanny.

Javert bowed his head, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "I'm not sure."

Everything he had meant to say, every point he had argued with the Valjean of his mind over the summer, had become impossible to articulate now that they were standing face to face. Again he thought of all the questions he had been struggling with for weeks – what was right? What was wrong? How could he go on as he had been, when he had been doing everything wrong?

He floundered, grimaced, shifted on his feet. At last, he blurted out, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Valjean touched his arm. Javert flinched instinctively, then forced himself to hold still.

"I don't want to kill anyone," Valjean said, slowly removing his hand. Javert thought he could still feel the warmth where it had been.

"Not even me? I was a danger to you. I still am." Javert said the last without conviction. He wondered if even Valjean believed it these days.

"Not anyone," Valjean repeated. He nodded in the direction of the street. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

 

*

 

The sun was setting, but the evening was warm. The streets were far from empty; there were rowdy gangs of teenagers, tired-looking women with children, old men sitting outside bars, drinks in hand. Valjean spared them all a smile, dropping coins into the paper cup of the old beggar at the street corner. Some people looked askance at Javert in his uniform.

Neither he nor Valjean spoke as they went down the road, turned left at a crossroads, and reached a park. There were still people strolling along the under the shadowy trees, walking their dogs, holding hands with their dates. Javert watched them, envious of their normalcy, the way they seemed to take it all for granted.

Valjean hesitated for a moment, then nodded towards a solitary bench, some distance from the park's gate. "Want to sit down for a minute?"

Javert nodded, feeling more ill at ease than ever. They sat down, still silent. He realised his hands were sweaty, and wiped them on his thighs.

"I still think you should have killed me," he said after a while. "It's what any sensible person would have done."

Valjean sighed. "Even if that was true, it doesn't matter anymore, does it?" He looked down, twining his hands together in his lap. "Nothing matters anymore."

The tone of his voice – dejected, wistful – gave Javert pause. "What do you mean by that?" He frowned. "I don't understand you."

The sky was pink and dark blue now, the shadows long. Javert looked at his watch. Soon Valjean would get fed up and go home, and rightly so. He owed nothing to Javert. The only way Javert could lay claim to him would be by arresting him, and they both knew that was not going to happen.

He meant to rise to his feet first, excuse himself and leave, when he noticed the look on Valjean's face. His mouth was trembling, his eyes turned to the sky, as if in prayer. He seemed worlds away.

"Valjean?" Javert realised that it was the first time he had spoken the name like this – not with harshness or in triumph, but tentatively. Valjean's quiet despair disturbed him in a manner that was as inexplicable as it was profound. "Valjean? What's the matter?"

"Nothing." With a shuddering sigh, Valjean shook his head. "Absolutely nothing."

Javert had never been good with feelings, neither other people's nor his own, but he could still detect a lie when he heard one. Deep inside him, instinct reared its head, the way it always had in the presence of deceit.

"You said that nothing matters anymore. Why did you say that? What do you mean?"

Those expressive features seemed to glaze over. A moment passed in absolute silence, and then Valjean rose to his feet. "It's getting late," he said. "I should be heading home. I'm sorry."

Javert rose as well. The park was getting empty now, though the streetlights had come on. "Who was it earlier?" he asked as they headed back up the street towards Valjean's building. "When I rang the door."

"My daughter. Cosette."

"Your daughter? Your – oh." He remembered the prostitute's kid. "She didn't sound like she was afraid someone was coming to arrest you."

Valjean's mouth thinned into a line; a tremble passed through him. "You won't tell her, will you?"

It took a moment for Javert to recognise the tone in his voice: fear. More than fear, it was anguish.

"She doesn't know?"

"She won't ever know, if I can help it," Valjean said tersely. "Not until I'm dead, anyway."

So that was what Jean Valjean was afraid of, this man who had put himself in front of a gun without hesitation. That his secret would be out at last, not to the world at large, but to this girl. _Deceit_ , the old part of Javert sneered. _Kindness,_ the new one argued. Javert did not know what to think. Perhaps it was both, or neither.

Too many things in this world were both or neither. He missed having clear answers.

"What a riddle," he muttered to himself. Then, realising Valjean was staring at him, he cleared his throat. "I'll leave you here, then. My car's parked right down the road."

"Javert..."

Valjean extended his hand, a faint smile about his mouth. Javert stared at it, taken aback. At last he reached out to shake Valjean's hand, which was warm and firm.

"Thank you," Valjean said. "For not telling her, when you rang the door."

It was not until Javert was back in his car, turning the key in the ignition, that he realised what Valjean had said, and it wasn't, _Thank you for not arresting me._

 

*

 

Life went on after this, too.

August eased into September, the leaves turned golden at the edges. On several nights, Javert found himself taking a detour on his way home, driving past the park where he and Valjean had sat together. He was not sure why he was doing it, which annoyed him. There were already enough mysteries in the world; he did not enjoy being a mystery to himself.

When, one night, he spotted Valjean on the pavement and his heart leapt into his throat – and he almost slammed the brakes right there and then – he did start to form a suspicion. That night he took an even longer detour around town, just to once again imagine Jean Valjean next to him, glancing at him sideways through dark expressive eyes, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

"Look," he said aloud, almost in despair. "I'm a cop. You're a criminal. Yeah, yeah, I know, you're more than that – Jesus Christ, you're far more than that – but still. It's impossible."

Valjean's imagined smile widened, as if he were trying not to laugh.

"Look. I don't know if you like men, even, but if you did, there are plenty of reasons why you wouldn't want anything to do with me. Very good reasons, too." He desperately wanted a cigarette, and wished he had never quit smoking. "I'm dangerous to you."

 _As if you could ever scare me,_ said the Valjean of his mind, almost as if pitying him. _You've seen what I'm afraid of now. It isn't you._

He shook his head, almost missing a red light, and cursed. "I really should stay out of your life."

When he turned into his own street, the Valjean of his mind was gone, but his final whisper remained: _So why can't you?_

 

*

 

On a Sunday afternoon in late September he decided to bite the bullet.

Perhaps it was the nice weather. Perhaps it was the fact that he had the whole day off, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Perhaps he was just tired of arguing with his own imagination, but at any rate he put on a suit that he hadn't worn for years, shaved thoroughly, and made sure to check his car was clean before heading over to Valjean's part of town.

Despite his determination, he found himself fretful once he arrived, wishing he had some kind of pretext – any pretext – to be there. He rubbed his palms together, glancing at the coffee shop across the street. Maybe he could get himself a cup of coffee. At least it would give him something to do with his hands.

As he was standing in line, it struck him that he should get coffee for Valjean too. It was hardly enough to repay him for saving Javert's life, but maybe Valjean would appreciate it. Or be thrown off. At least it would serve him right for being so infuriatingly confusing himself, Javert thought with some petty glee.

He studied the menu and decided that Valjean should have the most expensive item, a lavish concoction of salty caramel, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce, with some coffee thrown in. As for himself, he went for a double latte instead of his usual americano. Armed with a hot mug in each hand, he crossed the street, feeling more confident by the second. He even managed to ring the doorbell without putting either of the mugs down.

This time Valjean himself answered. "Hello?"

"It's me," Javert said, not realising until it was too late how familiar he sounded. Oh well. "Javert."

"Javert?" Valjean sounded surprised, but not shocked, not like the previous time. "Just a second, I'll be right there."

While waiting, Javert wondered if Valjean would ever invite him in to meet his adoptive daughter. The thought made him profoundly uncomfortable. If they were ever to become friends – or whatever he was hoping for, standing here in a suit with a gift of fancy coffee in his hand – Javert would have to face the girl sooner or later, and he was not looking forward to it. In that way, it would almost be a relief if Valjean told him to get lost.

Almost. The thought of Valjean telling him such a thing, as fair as it would be, made something deep within him sink.

Valjean appeared, dressed like last time, except now he was wearing a blue-and-white shirt that said WORLD'S BEST DAD. He caught Javert looking, and flushed a little. "Sorry about the outfit," he said. "I got changed after Church – we weren't expecting visitors."

"Right. Sorry." Javert thrust the mug forward. "I brought you coffee."

"Oh!" Valjean was indeed taken aback, but with pleasure. It was a good look on him. "Well, thank you, Javert," he said, accepting the cup. "This was – unexpected."

Emboldened, Javert nodded in the direction of the park. "I thought perhaps we could go for a walk again. If you like?"

Valjean nodded, still looking surprised. Perhaps that was not why he didn't think to change his t-shirt before they left, not that Javert would have wanted him to. The slogan was probably true, after all.

 

*

 

They sat down on the same bench as last time. Valjean's eyes widened for a moment as he took a sip of his coffee. Perhaps it had been too sweet. Javert offered for a moment to switch coffees, but he'd already tasted his own and it seemed inappropriate.

"Nice weather," he said, studying the trees and feeling like a fool.

Valjean smiled his assent, and Javert looked at him sideways. Had Valjean's smile always been this lovely? Not that he'd had much chance to notice – Valjean had not exactly smiled much in prison. Not as mayor either, for that matter. But Valjean's world had changed so much, even more than Javert's, and still there was such light in him, such goodness. Where had it come from?

He thought of that night at the sewers when Valjean had patted his shoulder. Even in that situation, even in that place, he had reached out to Javert with sympathy. Javert had not wanted that sympathy. He'd barely regained his bearings after Valjean had unexpectedly saved his life earlier that night, and that light touch had been enough to throw him off his fragile balance – enough to raise the gun to his mouth once Valjean and the boy had left.

Had the gun functioned as it should, they would not have been sitting here now. Strange how, in a sense, Valjean's touch could have killed him that night. And now he found himself wishing Valjean would touch him again, and thinking that this time it would do the opposite – this time it would save him.

"You were afraid I'd tell your daughter," he said at last.

Valjean tensed.

"I'm not going to – that's on you." Was that too harsh? "It's none of my business, really. I don't even know her."

"You don't know me that well either," Valjean pointed out mildly, an eyebrow lightly arched.

Javert swallowed, uncertain how to take the statement. Was it an invitation? A rebuff? "True," he said. "I never have."

Valjean was watching him with curiosity, as if Javert was as much of a riddle to him as he was to Javert. He took another sip of coffee. "This is nice," he said. "Is it from the place across the street? I only drink coffee at home, really."

It was easier than it should have been to picture Valjean at home, seated at the kitchen table with a steaming mug in his hand – real coffee, not a ridiculous calorie bomb – and reading a book. The image of easy domesticity sent a pang through Javert.

"I mostly drink coffee at work," he said. "Cheap stuff. Keeps you going."

He still had so many questions without answers – about himself, about Valjean, about the world. Here and now, that didn't matter. It was enough to sit like this, he and Valjean side by side on the bench, the silence between them peaceful rather than painful.

"Did you mind me coming here today?" he asked at last. Better to know for certain, before he made too much of a fool of himself. "Just let me know, I won't be offended."

Valjean shook his head, again with that sideways glance. "Not at all. It's – good to have company. Cosette has been spending more and more time with Marius and his family." A shadow passed over his face. "She's in love with him."

"Marius?"

"The boy from the riots. The one you let me take away."

"Ah." Javert remembered it well enough. Valjean putting himself between the gun and the boy, unafraid. At the time he had not thought to ask who the boy was and why Valjean was dragging him through the sewers. Now it made sense.

"You must be their hero," he remarked, and was astonished at the way Valjean flinched.

"They don't know anything about that."

"But –"

"Marius was unconscious. Just as well. He has no idea what happened, and neither does Cosette."

Valjean had turned to him. His face was filled with that same anguish Javert had seen once before, when he'd said that nothing mattered anymore. "Please, Javert. Don't tell them."

He had no right to deny Valjean's request, as much as he did not understand it. "Very well," Javert said. "I won't, though I think they'll find out sooner or later. Besides, as I said earlier, I don't even know them, so it's not like I have occasion to say anything."

"Right. About that..." Valjean bit his lip. "Cosette was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner next Sunday?"

"Me?"

With a sinking feeling he realised that there might be no way to get out of this. "She doesn't even know who I am."

"She knows you're an old friend of mine," Valjean said. "I take it you introduced yourself to her as such."

"I introduced myself to her... God." Javert barely managed not to groan. "What should I say if she asks? Do you want me to lie?"

"I wouldn't ask for that! Only..."

That expression of anguish passed over his face again. Looking away, he said, very quietly, "Just let me deal with any questions that might come. I don't think it will be a problem."

All of this was a bad idea. Javert knew that. Hell, seeking out Jean Valjean to begin with had been a bad idea, and the fact that arresting him would have been worse could not change that.

But here he was, sitting with Valjean in the late afternoon sun, drinking coffee and pretending to be old friends. He had shaved and put on a suit and rung the doorbell with butterflies in his stomach, and deep down he knew why he was here.

If Valjean asked this of him, how could Javert say no?

"All right," he said stiffly. "It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you, Javert."

Valjean's face broke into a smile, although he must be even more nervous about this dinner than Javert. Perhaps asking had been difficult for him. But how could that be? Had he not understood that Javert would agree? That Javert would agree to anything Valjean asked of him?

They did not linger after that. The coffee was drunk, the cups empty, the sun setting. But when Javert drove home that night, it was with a comforting reassurance that he was on the right track, at last. And his imagination did not appear to tell him otherwise.

 

*

 

The girl was chatty, although Javert noticed that she avoided the difficult questions. Perhaps she reserved those for her adopted father. Javert handed over the flowers he'd bought – she was the hostess, after all, and they said flowers were always a safe option – and took the seat she hustled him into before disappearing into the kitchen. The flat was modest, as he had come to expect, but not unhomely; everything was tidy and clean, there were pictures on the wall – mostly photos of Cosette at various ages – and white lace curtains of the sort he vaguely remembered from his mother's house.

Valjean appeared with a bowl of mashed potatoes which he placed gingerly on the table next to Javert.

"I didn't know you cooked," Javert said. There were so many things he did not yet know about Valjean.

"Nothing fancy," Valjean said, ducking his head. He poured wine for himself and Javert, and ginger ale for Cosette. "I had to sometimes, when I was living with my sister. We both worked full-time, so we split the chores. Her kids helped, but they were too small to cook."

Javert nodded, somewhat ill at ease. So many things, indeed. He'd looked into Valjean's youth during one of his investigations. There hadn't been anything remarkable about it. The sister's husband had died in a car accident, possibly while drunk; she had struggled to pay rent, especially after her youngest child got sick. Valjean himself had dropped out of school to find job at a warehouse at that time. Higher education had been out of the question, of course, even before the shoplifting incident.

To a policeman, it was one sad life out of many. To Javert, it was a reminder of the mysterious coincidence that had led his path to cross with Valjean's, that had brought him to this implausible point where he could sit at Valjean's table as a guest in his home. If Valjean had never been arrested – if he'd kept on living his life in grinding poverty, without going to jail – Javert would never have known him. Such an outcome would no doubt have been better for Valjean, and yet he could not bring himself to wish for it.

His thoughts were disrupted by the reappearance of Cosette, who carried a tray of roast lamb and vegetables, Valjean following with the gravy. Soon she was handing out plates for the three of them, proudly announcing that this was only her second time making lamb roast.

"We have a neighbour who taught me," she said, sitting down next to her father. "When I was little, she used to come by to babysit me sometimes. Papa helped her get a job with the parish." She smiled at Valjean. "The priest always listens to him."

"Don't be silly, Cosette," Valjean said, clearly embarrassed. "Would you like to say grace, Javert?"

Javert had not said grace since his schooldays, but he had always had a good memory, and this was an offer he could not bring himself to turn down. He nervously folded his hands, mumbling, "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

"Amen," Valjean and Cosette echoed. When Javert looked up, they were both smiling.

Later that night, as he returned home, he could not remember much of the conversation, which had mostly been about harmless things anyway – no difficult questions, no serious discussions of right and wrong. What he remembered was the weight of Valjean's eyes upon him, the sight of Valjean's smile, the warmth of Valjean's hand in his as he took his leave – and, most of all, the sound of Valjean's voice as he asked Javert to come back soon.

His own flat seemed smaller and colder than usual. He poured himself an inch of whisky and took it over to the window. He could not see Valjean's home from there – the direction was all wrong, and even if it weren't, several high-rise buildings would have blocked the way. But still.

"I know you're out there," he said aloud, taking a sip of whisky. "And sooner or later, I'll have you."

The Valjean of his thoughts appreciated the joke, which was all Javert needed for the moment. He got ready for bed and slipped under the blankets, hard despite himself from the memories of Valjean's smile. When at last he gave in and touched himself, it was all too easy to imagine that his hand was not his own.

 

*

 

Before the dinner, they had exchanged telephone numbers, in case something came up. Javert knew that he could have tracked down Valjean's number easily, and presumably Valjean knew this as well. The fact that he had chosen not to, and that Valjean had provided him with the number voluntarily, must count for something, or so he hoped.

Even so, he could have lived without the constant temptation to contact Valjean.

On patrol, at briefings, during meetings with the superintendent – ever so often his hand would stray to his pocket in vain hopes of a text. Or his thoughts would stray to various half-composed messages he himself never could bring himself to finish. _Hi, this is Javert. Now that we have established I'm not going to arrest you or tell your daughter about your past, would you like to go out?_

"You goddamned coward," he told himself at last, as he had done months before, and sent a text to Valjean.

_Thanks for a great evening the other day. Would you like to get a beer?_

 

*

 

There were circles under Valjean's eyes, and his face looked a little drawn, as if he'd been sleeping poorly. Still he smiled upon seeing Javert, causing Javert's heart to do a double-take. As they sat down in a relatively quiet corner with their beers, he surreptiously studied Valjean's outfit: a grey three-piece suit, the collar open at the throat, just enough for Javert to glimpse the edge of the old tattoo. He swallowed, feeling his jeans getting uncomfortably tight. He'd gone for a more casual outfit, denim and a shirt and an old leather jacket, and now he was feeling significantly underdressed.

"Nice suit," he said, hoping it didn't sound sarcastic.

"This one?" Valjean looked down, as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. "Cosette helped me pick it out." He smiled, somewhat shyly. "She was the one who made me wear it tonight. I'm not good with clothes."

For some reason this made Javert feel better. He took a sip of his beer, daring to study Valjean more openly now.

"It looks good on you," he said without pausing to wonder if it was the correct thing to say.

Valjean started. A flush crept up his cheeks, and he blinked. "Well, thank you," he said, a little hesitant. "You look good yourself."

Javert felt himself flush in turn. Not knowing how to respond, he raised his glass again. "Here's to you, then!" he said. "Thanks for coming."

"Here's to you," Valjean said, sipping his beer. "And thanks for asking me."

They fell silent, avoiding each other's eyes. Javert remembered that one time they had sat on the bench for a long time without saying a word. The silence had been peaceful, then, but now something seemed to hang in the air between them, waiting to be spoken aloud – or perhaps that was just his imagination. Even so, he felt on edge, as if balancing between anticipation and dread.

"Excuse me for a moment," he muttered, getting to his feet.

It took him a minute or so to locate the bathroom. All the while he thought he could feel Valjean's gaze following him, but he did not dare turn to look.

He splashed cold water in his face and then scowled at himself in the mirror. He couldn't remember ever having been this nervous. What if he screwed everything up?

"Yes, what then?" he muttered to himself. "You're no worse off. You can do without him. You've done without him for most of your life."

But he knew that it was not that simple.

When he emerged from the bathroom, it was to the sight of Valjean engaged in conversation with a grey-haired man in his fifties. The man was leaning against their table, smiling, and Valjean was smiling back, saying something Javert could not hear.

Javert stopped dead in his tracks, chilled to the bone. Then the chill disappeared and fury took its place, followed by helplessness. What was he to Valjean? Nothing. He had no claim on Jean Valjean save for that of the Law, which he had abandoned. If Valjean wanted to smile at strangers, talk to them, flirt with them under Javert's very nose, then that was his right. Javert had no grounds on which to complain.

That did not mean he had to make it easy for them, however.

Getting a grip on himself, he marched over to the table and showed his teeth in an icy grin.

"Good evening," he said pointedly to the man, who was almost as tall as himself and far better groomed. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"There you are, Javert," Valjean said, looking pleased. "Let me introduce you to our priest, Father Francis. Father, this is my friend, Javert."

Javert was about to say that there was no need to introduce him to anyone, before Valjean's words dawned on him. He felt his grin die away.

The priest shook Javert's hand, which Javert could not remember having extended. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. I have heard so much about you – all good things," he added with a smile.

Valjean flushed and looked down. Javert was at a loss for words. The priest glanced between them, then checked his watch. "Well, I should be going. Nice to meet you, sir," he said to Javert before leaning over to shake Valjean's hand. "We will see you on Sunday, I hope?"

"Of course," Valjean said faintly. He still seemed unable to meet Javert's eyes. After Father Francis had left, Javert sat down heavily, the priest's words replaying in his mind. Did they signify anything?

"Your priest goes to bars?" he said at last.

"Apparently he was here to meet his brother. I suppose priests like beer as much as we do," Valjean said with a small smile. He kept avoiding Javert's gaze, in a manner that Javert found rather encouraging. Could it be that Valjean was nervous too?

"So you've been talking to him about me," he said, watching in fascination as Valjean's flush deepened.

"I have mentioned you to him, yes." Valjean tried for another smile. "Do you mind?"

"Mind? No." He waited for a second, and then finally, Valjean's eyes met his. "Just surprising, that's all."

"I don't see why it should be a surprise," Valjean said. He was still blushing, but now his gaze was resolute where it held Javert's. "If we are to be friends, I might mention you now and then."

There it was, again. Friends. It seemed to have happened, somehow, miraculous as it was.

And yet, Javert thought, holding Valjean's gaze, he wanted more. He'd known he wanted more ever since that first afternoon there on the bench – perhaps even since that night when Valjean had patted his shoulder and almost driven him to kill himself. He had no idea what he would do if he screwed this up; he had no idea how to proceed, or how to retreat gracefully if everything failed. He just knew he had to try.

Without taking his eyes from Valjean's, he reached for his hand. Valjean gave a start, but did not pull away as Javert took his hand between both of his own.

"In fact, he said, "I'd like more than that. I'd like to ask you out. On a date, I mean."

He had no idea where this sudden bravery had come from. Perhaps it was from Valjean's touch. Valjean's hand was firm and warm where it rested between Javert's palms; he could feel the heat spread throughout his body from that single point of contact, causing his heart to race, his spine to tingle with arousal.

Maybe he had gone too far, stepping over the precipice at last. It did not matter. He had spoken the truth. All of a sudden he was reminded of that email he had written that night in June and failed to send. Well, he had not spoken the truth back then, but he had done so now, and if Valjean would reject him for it, then that was his right.

He waited, adrenaline coursing through his veins. For a long, terrible moment, Valjean said nothing. Then his face broke into a smile – a real one this time, wide and radiant, and Javert thought he would die.

"I thought we already _were_ on a date," Valjean said. "At least, that's what Cosette said. But as you can tell, I didn't mind in the slightest."

Javert wanted to laugh, or possibly cry. In order to do neither, he let go of Valjean's hand long enough to down the rest of his beer.

"I'd like to kiss you," he found himself saying. "If that's all right with you. But possibly not here, in case your priest comes back."

Valjean blushed again, quite prettily. He glanced around at the rest of the bar, but no one was paying them any attention. Then, with determination, he seized his own glass with his free hand and downed his own beer in turn.

"Let's go, then," he said, rising from his chair. For a moment Javert gaped, and then he scrambled to his feet, almost forgetting to put on his jacket in the process.

 

*

 

As soon as they were outside, the silence became awkward again. Valjean shifted on his feet, glancing up the street – his flat was only a few blocks away. Javert wondered if he was worrying about the neighbours.

"I'll walk you home," he offered. Surely the night could not end yet. Not like this. Whatever was about to happen between them – Valjean seemed to want it too. He had agreed to come on a date, after all. He had let Javert hold his hand.

Valjean turned to him. In the streetlight, his eyes were dark and glittering. "Home? No." He touched Javert's arm lightly, as he had done before, and the impact was no less great. "Let's go to the park."

After a ten minutes' walk in silence, they were again seated on what Javert had come to think of as their bench. He glanced over at Valjean, trying to guess his thoughts. Was Valjean regretting this already? Was he trying to find a nice way of turning Javert down? Or was he, too, pondering how to take the first step –?

This time it was Valjean who took his hand and held it between his own. Javert swallowed, his heart pounding. He was hard, and he hoped Valjean would not notice – or perhaps that he would.

"I thought of you, after that first time you came to see me," Valjean said. "I wondered what drove you. Then, later on, I started to get an idea."

Javert held his breath. Valjean pressed his hand.

"I'm very bad at these things," he said, almost apologetically. "But if you want to, we can try."

It was perhaps not the most romantic words ever uttered, but Javert had no need for romance, only for the truth.

He leaned down – _finally, finally_ – and pressed his lips to Valjean's, halfway missing them in the poor light. It did not matter. As soon as their mouths met, a shock went through him like a blow, much like that first time Valjean had touched his arm. He let out a strangled groan, trembled, and pressed closer despite himself, terrified to push too far and more terrified still to let go.

In the end Valjean broke away, gently. They sat for long moments with their foreheads together, their breaths mingling.

"You don't owe me anything," Javert said at last. "I'm not going to arrest you, and that won't ever change. But I want this, and I'm not going to lie to you. Tell me to get lost, and I will. But if not..."

Valjean shook his head, a deep sigh escaping him. "No," he whispered against Javert's mouth. "I want this too. But you'll have to teach me – I've always been alone."

There was nothing more for Javert to say, but there were so many things for him to do. He pulled Valjean to him again, kissed him again. Valjean clutched at his hand as if it were a lifeline, his mouth was warm and open against Javert's; the world had shifted for good, and Javert had never been so glad to be falling.

 

**Epilogue**

 

He rang the doorbell, wondering if Valjean was serious about giving him a key. That might be moving a bit too fast. Two months were hardly a long time, although they had known each other for far longer than that – in one sense, anyway.

The door opened, and Javert stepped inside, hauling his bags with him. He could not remember last time he had spent Christmas with someone; usually he was working. Colleagues with families appreciated people like him picking up the slack, and more importantly, so did the superintendent. There had been some raised eyebrows this year when he had asked to get the holiday off.

Well, let them wonder, he thought as he mounted the stairs. He hadn't given them much to gossip about over the years.

Valjean opened the door to the flat, his eyes lighting up. Javert glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then leaned down to kiss him. He smelled like soap and pine trees.

"I was hoping you'd come soon," Valjean said. "Cosette is visiting Marius. I told her dinner wouldn't be for hours yet."

"Not for hours, you say?"

Javert could feel his mouth widen in a grin. Judging from the look on Valjean's face, warm and inviting, this was not a wrong reaction.

He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him, his life beginning at last.


End file.
